


I Hope We're Not Going To Have A Problem

by GilShalos1



Series: Mine Eyes Dazzle [1]
Category: Law & Order
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Complete, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-05
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8089273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: Scenes from the beginning, middle and end of the relationship between Jack and Claire. Starts fluffy, gets much darker.





	1. A Night At The Opera

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a deliberate misquote of one of Jack McCoy's first lines in the series, ("I certainly don't anticipate a problem.") when Claire Kincaid asks him about his previous relationships with co-workers.

Claire pushed open the door and strode in, her silk dress swishing around her knees and releasing a gust of perfume.

"Thanks for coming in," Jack McCoy said. "I know you had plans, and I appreciate you breaking them."

In Claire Kincaid's imagination.

In the actual real world, he didn't look up as she came into his office. "I thought you covered the fifth amendment issue on the Davis case," he barked, slinging a sheaf of papers in tell-tale court motion blue across his desk.

"I did," Claire said. She dropped her handbag on the nearest chair and picked up the papers.

"Her lawyer filed a motion to dismiss."

"Groundless," Claire said, flipping pages. "And so is this. And this. And four – five – six – Jesus, Jack, this is a laundry list. Nothing here's worth heartburn."

"Oh, you think? Maybe if you checked your messages every now and again you'd have a different opinion."

 _Don't take it out on me_ , Claire thought, but she pressed her lips together until she could trust herself to speak. "I had tickets to the opera. I was – " _shaving my legs, doing my hair, pulling on my 30 a pair stockings._ "Why don't you tell me what I missed?"

" Judge Laurence crashed his car last night. He won't be back at work for at least six weeks. His cases have been reassigned. _People v_ _Davis_ – we drew Holland."

"Crap," Claire said. "He's got a hard-on for the constitution that would put John Bobbit to shame."

Her metaphor got McCoy's attention away from his papers. "He thinks he might end up on the Supreme Court."

"And he wants to prove he'd be a safe pair of hands."

"Exactly." McCoy threw his pen down in disgust.

"We're solid on this, Jack," Claire said, dropping the court papers back on his desk. She started unbuttoning her coat. "This is a nuisance, not a catastrophe."

"I'm glad you're confident," McCoy snorted, but he leaned back in his chair, relaxing a little.

"I am." Claire finished unbuttoning her coat and slipped it off, tossing it on the coat rack. As she turned back she caught sight of herself reflected in the window – all dark hair and dark eyes, green silk dress skimming her figure in all the right places – and sighed. _What a wasted effort_.

The she caught sight of herself reflected in Jack McCoy's eyes – twinkling, appreciative – and felt herself flush a little, standing straighter.

"Tickets to the opera?" he said.

"Turandot."

"Alone?"

"Who goes to the opera alone?" Claire said. His gaze was making her – not exactly uncomfortable. She felt wrong-footed, flattered but also vulnerable. _And he knows it, bastard._ She held his gaze, raised an eyebrow. "Did I need your permission?"

"No." He wasn't crass enough to look her up and down, his eyes stayed steady on her face. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have paged you in if I'd know."

"I told you before I left."

"I didn't hear you."

"You didn't listen."

"I'd have paid more attention if you wear that dress to the office."

"You're skating very close to a sexual harassment complaint," Claire said.

"Really?" McCoy drawled. "Do you feel … harassed?" When she hesitated before answering, he smiled lazily.

"If I have to go home and change for you to concentrate on the case, Jack, we won't get this done before dawn," Claire warned.

"I'll be good," he said, and winked. "If you will."


	2. Harmless

It gave the day a little buzz, the game they were playing.  A wink, a smile, a double entendre – Claire knew it was never going to go anywhere.  Even without the age gap, Jack McCoy was her boss.  She had already made that mistake once. 

Claire didn’t deny, couldn’t deny, that she found him attractive.  She told herself that it was an intellectual response to his quick mind, his combative nature, his humor, even his temper.  No matter how often she told herself that, she couldn’t keep her heart from beating a little faster at the sound of his husky voice.  She could ignore but not prevent the flush of heat she felt seeing him stride easily across the courtroom, at the way he toyed with his pen watching defense counsel cross-examine a witness, at the sight of his rangy body stretched out on the couch in his office or sprawled in a chair.

She had dreams, not day-dreams, but honest to god night-time sleeping dreams in which they were working on a case or driving in a car or stuck in an elevator and he turned to her and kissed her and unbuttoned her blouse …

So no, Claire couldn’t deny she found Jack McCoy attractive.  But they were adults, and they worked together. The spark between them lent a sparkle to the working day but nothing more.   She had already made that mistake once.  She wasn’t going to make it again.

Sometimes she thought maybe the game was going a little too far.   They were both competitive – it was why they worked so well together.  But it meant they goaded each other to see who would go further, be more flirtatious, be more outrageous – to see who would be shocked first. 

So far neither.  At lunch on Monday when she’d dared him to try her sashimi eel and held a piece out on her chopsticks McCoy had hesitated for barely a second and then leaned forward and eaten it, deliberately, holding her eyes, until she was the one to blush and look away.  Today she’d told him she had a date tonight and a new dress.  I hope it’s a short one, McCoy had said.  You’ll hook him if you show off those legs.  It is, Claire had said, refusing to back down, twitching her skirt up a little, then a little more.  This short, no, wait, _this short_.  Short enough?  She’d felt a kick of triumph when McCoy had to clear his throat to answer, eyes fixed on her hemline. 

And then, walking down the corridor to her own office she felt a wave of heat at the recollection.  McCoy played desire, joked with it, teased her, and she pretended to be innocent and ingenuous to tease him right back.  But he’d looked at her this afternoon without artifice, and while it might have meant she won on points suddenly Claire wanted to know how he’d look at her in the short dress she’d bought, or in her swim suit, or in her underwear. 

_Because if he looked at me like that, like that for real_ _…_

Her knees weakened at the thought, she stopped and leaned against the wall, pretending to study her papers. 

_But we work together. He_ _’s my boss.  So it’s harmless.  It can’t go anywhere.  I’ve already made that mistake once._


	3. Competition

 

“You finishing up for the night?” Jack asked.  Claire looked up from the papers she was putting in her briefcase. 

“Yeah, I think so – unless?” She made a gesture meant to encompass the whole range of tasks the EADA might have for an ADA at 8 pm on a Tuesday night.

“No,” Jack said. “Go on.  See you tomorrow.”

He could have stepped forward, out of the doorframe.  He could have stepped back.  He did neither.  Claire turned sideways to slide past him through the door and for a second Jack felt her breath on his cheek, the heat of her body through his shirt, her hair brush his shoulder.  He took an involuntary sharp breath, tasting the subtle intoxicating scent of her perfume.

He felt as if he had been plunged in fire, as if he’d run up a flight of stairs, heart pounding, struggling for breath, knees weak.  His mind went blank  of everything except how close Claire Kincaid stood to him, how pale her skin was, the shadows of fatigue under her eyes and how much he wanted to smooth them away.

Claire looked up and met his gaze, steadied herself with a hand on his arm, and was past him and heading down the hall before he could be sure he’d seen the color rising in her cheeks, her eyes darkening. 

“Night, Jack,” she said, walking quickly away.

Even after he heard her get in the elevator and go he couldn’t move.  His arm burned where she had touched it.   He replayed the moment, only this time it ended with him taking her in his arms, hand flat on the small of her back, bending his head to touch the smooth column of her neck with his lips…

It was harmless fun, a casual flirtation.  That was what he told himself.  Claire was so much less worldly than she liked to think she was – Jack found the temptation to tease her almost irresistible.  And she was attractive, hell, gorgeous. 

But he had learned his lesson.  _Fourth time the charm_.  He had made that mistake three times, he wouldn’t make it again. 

It was no more than a harmless flirtation, a little fun.

Jack leaned against the doorframe and shook his head.  _Liar_. 

 _This short. Short enough? she_ _’d asked, and he’d stared transfixed at the hem of her skirt, and the edge of lace he could see beneath it.  If he slid his hand up her skirt he would feel that lace on the stocking and then beyond it skin, smooth and soft.  Short enough?  His mouth was too dry to speak._

_Try it, she said.  Coward!  Here.  She held out the smoked eel in her chopsticks, laughing.  Jack felt the imp of mischief, leaned forward, holding her gaze.  Deliberately, he opened his mouth, took the eel right off her chopsticks, slowly, watching her eyes darken, watching the flush rise in her cheeks.  I could have you for the asking, he thought, amused at his power, and then the amusement vanished in a rush of raw desire at the idea of having her, for the asking, for the begging, there in the office, tender or forceful, however she wanted – Jack looked down and turned away before she realised that she too could have him for the asking._

Harmless flirtation.  _Yeah, right._

 _Liar_ , Jack thought, and _Fool._

_How many times do you have to make the same mistake?_


	4. Blame It On The Boogie

She could blame it on the boogie, she could blame it on the rain. But when it came right down to it, Claire blamed it on exhaustion.

She was so tired that month that driving home at night she had to crank down the window to let the February wind blast her, had to slap herself across the face to keep awake.   McCoy was tired too, so she couldn’t resent him, but god! she resented the workload.  Some mornings when the alarm went off she started to cry with the sheer misery of it. 

That night – the night it was raining, the night Colleen was humming  Marvin Gaye in the elevator when Claire went down to Complaints – she was so tired that she zoned out in the elevator on the way back up to 10th, stared at the open doors until they closed again and the lift started back down. 

When she finally got back to McCoy’s office after riding the elevator for a while, he was asleep on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, papers scattered across his chest.  Part of Claire thought she should let him sleep.  Part of her wanted to drop a couple of law reports from a great height onto his desk and watch him jump.

She settled for touching his shoulder gently.  “Got those affidavits,” she said. 

He opened his eyes, looked at her for a moment, still deep in sleep and guileless, and smiled sweetly. 

“Thanks.”  He sat up, patted the couch beside him.  “I’ll just be a minute.”

Claire sat down to wait for him to decide what he needed her to do next, and tired as she was, she went – just completely _out_.  Awake one moment, the next minute coming out of a deep dark well of sleep. 

_Warm._ She was leaning on something warm, something that moved slightly, regularly, lifting and falling.  Like an annoying passenger on an airplane, she had slumped over sideways while she slept, onto Jack McCoy.  _Fucking wonderful_ , she thought, mortified, trying to ascertain if she’d drooled down her chin in her sleep without alerting him to the fact that she’d woken up. 

Then she realized the weight across her shoulders was his arm.  Her head rested on his chest, his hand was gently stroking her hair.  She could hear his heart beating.  She could hear his heart beating very fast _._

She yawned, sat up, accidentally-on-purpose put her hand on his thigh as she did so, had the satisfaction of seeing him jerk like her touch had electrocuted him. 

“Done yet?”  she asked.

“Hmm,” said McCoy non-committal, with a lap full of papers and clearly no intention of handing them over just at the moment.   Claire hid a smirk.  Then McCoy put his hand over hers, brushed the back of her fingers ever so gently, not even really a caress, nothing you couldn’t do in a case conference or a courtroom.

Claire’s mouth went dry and her vision dimmed.  She looked at McCoy and he was looking straight back at her, and it wasn’t any longer about who was going to win that round.  She reached out and touched his cheek, ran her fingers down his jaw and across his lips and McCoy opened his mouth a little, caught the tip of her forefinger between his teeth.  

“Jack…” Claire whispered, and saw his eyes dilate black at the sound of her voice. 

McCoy released her.  He closed his eyes and turned his face away.  “We have work to do,” he said huskily. 

“Yeah,” Claire said. 

Despite the boogie and the rain, that was it.  They were both too tired, too busy, to take it further.  But later, Claire would look back at that moment as the tipping point.  She went home that night in a cab, too tired to drive, and for the first time in months she no longer wondered if she’d sleep with Jack McCoy.

_When._


	5. Defeat

_Stay away_.

Claire told herself that every day. _Stay away_.  Every hour.  _Stay away._

She had made a terrible mistake.  She had thought she was adding a little spark to the working day.  Then she had realised she was playing with fire.  Then she realised she was playing with fire in a powder keg. 

Now she felt like Wylie E Coyote, standing around with a lit stick of dynamite in her hand and a puzzled expression on her face.

_Stay away._

She knew she couldn’t keep it up forever.  She was being pulled towards Jack with a force that was positively _geological_.  Tectonic plates being crashed together by the movement of the Earth’s core couldn’t feel more helpless than Claire.  Then she shared a fifty-four second elevator ride with Jack and decided that geological wasn’t a big enough metaphor.   _Astronomical_ was more fitting.  _We_ _’re moons.  Planets. We’re suns – twin suns in a shrinking orbit around each other._

_Destined to go nova from the moment they came close enough to get caught in each other_ _’s gravity well._

But she was not a helpless ball of gas. She was Claire Kincaid, A student (except for art), smart, sassy, in control. She could decide. 

Maybe she’d leave the job – then she wouldn’t be sleeping with her boss.

_Again._

Maybe she’d just say no to office affairs and wait for it all to die down. Maybe she’d tell him she didn’t believe in sex before marriage and watch him run for the hills.  In the meantime -

 _Stay away_. 

Jack – to her relief, to her disappointment – was respecting the boundaries she set.  Maybe he was relieved that she was setting them.  Maybe he was as astounded as she was that a harmless office flirtation had turned into a conflagration fierce enough to burn them both to the ground.

_Stay away._

Claire avoided being alone with him too much, especially after hours. She kept a certain physical distance.  She even tried not to look at him too much.

It wasn’t a viable long term solution.  It didn’t, for example, do anything about the dreams – dreams that woke her gasping, drenched in sweat, hands fisted in the bedclothes, every inch of her skin burning. 

It didn’t do anything about the fact that her job involved a certain amount of unavoidable interaction with him – case conferences, time in court – prosaic, matter of fact interactions that left her heart racing and her breath unsteady, that sometimes sent her into the ladies afterwards to lock herself in a stall and pull up her skirt and pull down her panties and do what she had just spent half an hour wishing Jack would do …

_It doesn_ _’t do anything about the fact that here I am at seven at night standing at his office door watching him looking for something on his bookshelf._

Claire knocked on the open door and he turned, glass in hand.

“Hey,” she said.  “Got one of those for me?”

“Sure.”  Jack dug a glass out of the mess on his desk and poured her a slug.  He held it out, and then put it on the desk and stepped back to put the bottle away.  _He knows as well as I do_ , Claire thought, _that we need a minimum safe distance._

_Bad things happen when we get too close._

Only they weren’t exactly bad, were they? 

“Rough day?” Jack asked. 

Claire sipped her drink, leaning against his desk.  She would have liked to sit down, her feet ached, but that would involve a choice between the visitor’s chair by his desk, where he’d be able to look straight up her skirt, or the couch, which was far too relaxed and suggestive.  She turned a little to hitch herself on the corner of the desk, an acceptable compromise.

“I lost,” she said glumly.

“I heard.  Not the first time,” Jack said. “Won’t be the last.   Saddle up again tomorrow and get back in the game.”

“Is that a mixed metaphor?” Claire asked, smiling despite herself, the way Jack could always make her smile no matter how determined she was to be sorry for herself, just as he could always, no matter how determined she was to be cool and professional, short-circuit her brain with the slightest touch of his fingertip on her arm.

“Not if you’re playing polo!” Jack said triumphantly.  He leaned against the desk beside her, not too close, not close enough for her to feel the heat of his body through her clothes, just close enough to be companionable, in a shoulder-to-shoulder ADAs-united-against-the-world kind of way.

Claire raised her nearly empty glass, conceding the point.  _Conceding –_ as she’d had to concede defeat today. She tried to keep the smile on her face but she could feel it draining away.

 She bowed her head and Jack put a companionable hand on her shoulder.  It was a neutral, friendly gesture.  Claire knew that if she leaned just a little way towards him, it would stop being platonic. 

 _Stay away_. 

She didn’t want to.  She felt terrible.  If she leaned a little way towards Jack McCoy and turned her head to meet his lips with her own, glass falling forgotten to the floor as her mouth opened beneath his and his tongue –

 _Well_.  Leaning a little way towards Jack McCoy would lead somewhere that would end with her feeling a hell of a lot better, of that Claire was quite certain. 

But she knew she was not up to making good decisions, feeling lousy with self-pity as she was.

Besides, the part of her that wasn’t wondering whether she should throw him down on the floor or drag him to the couch knew that if she made this decision it should be for a better reason than feeling sorry for herself.  When she kissed Jack McCoy, when she slept with Jack McCoy, she didn’t want it to be for any reason other than because she wanted to. 

_Or can_ _’t help myself, whichever comes first._

What she needed right now, more than mind-blowing sex, was a friend.

She leaned a little bit away from him, and Jack let his hand drop from her shoulder with one final squeeze.  “What’s the Manhattan DA approved way to get over a loss in court?” she asked.

“I believe that would be too much Chinese food and too much alcohol.”  Jack said.

“Sounds good,” Claire said.  “You’re buying.”

Jack laughed.  “I’ve seen you eat,” he said.  “No deal.” He cuffed her shoulder gently and reached for his coat.  “Come on, Olivia Wendell Holmes.  Let’s get you fed and drunk.”

His kindness warmed her through and through, making her think not only of _Jack bending me back over the desk, parting my legs and -_  but also _Resting my head on Jack_ _’s shoulder, feeling his arms strong around me, hearing him tell me it will be alright -_

_Stay away._

It was good advice, from her wiser second thoughts.  Wiser second thoughts that didn’t understand the realities of her job.  Wiser second thoughts that didn’t understand –

_That there_ _’s no choice._

Claire followed Jack out of his office, turning off the light behind her. 

 _Stay away_. 

_I can_ _’t._

_Liar._

_All right,_ Claire told the cautious voice within her defiantly.  _All right.  You want the truth? Stay away?_

**_I don_ ** **_’t want to._ **


	6. Opening

The phone rang.  Claire dropped the law review she was reading onto the coffee table and reached across the back of the couch for the receiver.

“Kincaid,” she said.

“Claire?” a familiar husky voice asked, and Claire felt a reflexive clench in her belly.  “It’s Jack.”

“I know,” Claire said instantly, and then to cover:  “No one else calls me this late.”  She shifted on the couch, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“What’s the time?” McCoy asked.

“The time, Mr Wolf, is eleven past eleven,” Claire said, crossing and then uncrossing her legs. 

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize it was so late.”  McCoy’s voice was oddly intimate through the phone, as if he was whispering in Claire’s ear. “I was working on the Montoya opening, I lost track of time.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“No,” Claire said hastily.  “Don’t hang up.  It’s fine.  Tell me about the Montoya opening.” She rested her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes to concentrate on what McCoy was saying. She could almost believe she could feel his breath on her neck. 

“We don’t have a lot of evidence,” McCoy said. 

“Uh huh,” Claire agreed.  She played with the top button on her blouse as she thought about the case against Elvira Montoya.  Mrs Montoya had murdered her husband for money, she and Jack were certain of it, but the case was very much circumstantial.  “But what we have is convincing.”  The button slipped loose and absently Claire moved down to the next one.

“We need to give the jury something to hold on to,” McCoy murmured.  “A story about the case to make the facts compelling.”

Claire trailed her fingers down the edge of her unbuttoned blouse.  “That’s not new. We always have to do that.”  She drew her fingers back up over her breasts to her neck. 

“I’m uneasy about this one, thought,” McCoy said.  Claire felt her nipples tighten as his voice resonated in her ear.  Feeling wicked, she stroked one, and then the other, as McCoy went on: “All the evidence points towards Montoya being a complete bastard.  The story we want to sell the jury is that Mrs Montoya was a bad wife.  Are you still there, Claire?”

“Uh huh,” Claire sighed.  _If only he could see me_ _…_ the thought was funny, and then she imagined McCoy in the room watching her as she ran her fingers around one peaked nipple and that wasn’t funny at all. Her back arched involuntarily, a whimper escaping her lips.  _Oh god, if only he could see me_ _…_

“But I don’t think that’s the real story.  I’m not sure what the real story is.  And I worry that the jury will ask themselves the same question.”

“Mmmm,” Claire agreed.  She slid her hand lower, imagining it was McCoy’s hand, listening to McCoy’s voice.  The tingling warmth in her belly began to grow. 

“Do you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” Claire said. _Oh god, yes._   She yanked down the zipper of her jeans. 

“Are you coming down with a cold?” McCoy asked.

“A cold?” Claire asked, fingers stilling.  “No. Why?”

“Your voice sounds funny,” McCoy said.

“No, I’m fine,” Claire said.  “Go on.”  _Please go on._ She moved the receiver a little away from her mouth so McCoy wouldn’t hear her breath quickening.   

“Are you sure?” he asked.

_Oh, god, he_ _’s guessed, he can tell_ , Claire thought.  An instant’s embarrassment was followed by the sudden imagine of McCoy on the other end of the phone, listening to her, imagining her.  “I’m sure,” she managed to say, bit her lip hard to keep quiet, heat flashing through her.  Her mind cycled through _Jack on the phone – Jack watching her – Jack touching her – Jack listening to her._  “Hold on,” she gasped, took the receiver away from her ear and pressed it against the couch cushion so he wouldn’t hear the noises she made as fireworks went off inside her and she kicked the coffee table over.

As her breathing slowed she put the phone back to her ear.  “Sorry,” she said.  “Something on the stove – boiling over.” 

“Did you turn it off in time?” McCoy asked, sounding a little alarmed.  Claire knew that if she told him she’d burnt down half the kitchen he’d be on his way over before she’d finished the sentence.  She settled back on the couch, warmed by his concern – not to mention by the afterglow.

“Yes, it’s fine,” she said.  “I got it in time.”

“You shouldn’t leave things on the heat,” McCoy said.

“I know.”  _Believe me, I know!_ “What were you saying?”

McCoy sighed.  “Just that I don’t know what it was that made Elvira Montoya hit her husband with a hammer fourteen times. He was cheating on her, he humiliated her in public, but that was nothing new.  She doesn’t say he ever hit her or threatened to.  She didn’t leave him because she liked the _money_.  So she killed him to hang on to the money.”

“The tribulations of the wealthy,” Claire said.

“Not something that’s ever troubled _my_ sleep,” McCoy said.

“Yes, if a woman ever beats in your head with a hammer it won’t be for the forty-seven dollars in your checking account,” Claire said.

“I told you to stop reading my bank statements,” McCoy said, and Claire laughed. 

“It’s funny, talking to you on the phone,” he said. 

“What do you mean?” Claire said.

“It’s like you’re leaning over my shoulder,” McCoy said. “Whispering in my ear.”

“I know,” Claire said.  “I feel like that too.”

“What would you like me to whisper?”  McCoy said slyly and Claire felt herself blush. 

“How about ‘Claire, you can have a raise,’?” she said.

“How about, Claire, I need you to solve my motive problem.”

“You need me to tell you your motives?” Claire asked.

“Oh, _my_ motives are perfectly clear to me,” McCoy said softly.  “It’s the motives of others that trouble my sleep. Take Mrs Montoya. Why then? What made her snap?”

“It doesn’t need to be any one thing, Jack.” Claire said.  “Maybe she thought everything could keep going the way it had been, that it would all be fine.  One day she woke up and looked in the mirror and realized she was fooling herself.  One day she realized she had to move forward, one way or another. So she did.”

“With a hammer,” McCoy said.

“Takes all kinds,” Claire said. 

“Have you ever felt like that?”

“Like beating in a man’s head with a hammer?” Claire asked.

“Like you couldn’t keep fooling yourself,” McCoy said.  “Like you had to move forward, one way or another.”

“Sometimes,” Claire said.  “How about you?”

“I think I’m getting there, Claire,” McCoy said, and the sudden seriousness in his voice made Claire sit up a little. 

“Then you know what to tell the jury about Elvira Montoya,” she said, refusing to take up his invitation. 

McCoy sighed..  “I do,” he said.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.  You can read my draft. Tell me what you think.”

“I will.”

“Tell me what you think I should do,” McCoy added, again with that unexpected gravity that Claire didn’t want to think about.

But that was unfair of her.  What was going on between them might be a plane-crash in progress, but they were both co-pilots.  Claire had been refusing to decide whether to assume the brace position or pull the lever for the ejector seat – but McCoy had the right to make that decision as well.  He had been very patient with her – _especially_ , Claire thought, _especially since he can_ _’t possibly avoid knowing that he could with five minutes concentrated effort completely eradicate my common sense._

He had not used his advantage – no matter how much she wished he would.  That, as well as common courtesy, meant she owed him an answer. _One way or another_.  

“I will,” Claire promised.  “I’ll tell you, Jack.”

“Okay,” McCoy said.  “Because – because I’m waiting by the phone, Claire.”


	7. Closing Arguments

“Mrs Montoya had been living a lie,” McCoy said to the jury.

Claire knew she should be watching the jury, watching the expressions on their faces, judging and assessing how they responded to McCoy’s closing argument.  She tried – but her attention was dragged back, over and over again, to McCoy, as he paced slowly before the jury box.  He was using what she thought of as his “coaxing” voice, the one he used when the main obstacle to conviction was that the defendant was too sympathetic.  _Warm, reassuring, yet strangely authoritative – like a paediatrician talking a six year old into getting a needle._

Sometimes alone at night Claire liked to imagine McCoy was talking to her in that gentle, irresistible voice. _Now take off your shirt, Claire, that_ _’s right …_

She snapped her attention back to the courtroom.  _Focus!_ she told herself sternly.

“Mrs Montoya was, as she saw it, trapped in a loveless marriage.  Not just loveless – _unbearable_.  You have heard testimony about Mr Montaya’s behavior.  Never going far enough to give her justification to have him charged or to have the prenuptial agreement set aside, nonetheless Mr Montoya, through carelessness, neglect and deliberately vile behavior, made his wife’s life a misery.”

“And one day, Elvira Montoya decided that enough was enough.  She would not, she _could not_ , take any more.”  McCoy looked away from the jury, the very picture of a man whose thoughts were elsewhere, were in that moment when Elvira Montoya looked in the mirror and decided that something had to give.  Then he gave a little shrug, a rueful smile, and looked back at the jury.

Claire managed to drag her attention away from him for long enough to see that the jurors were hanging on every word.

“Up to that point, I have to admit, Elvira Montoya has my sympathy.  No doubt she has yours.  And if she had made the choice to take that leap into the unknown – to leave her husband, and his money – to start a new life – we would all admire her courage, and wish her well.”

McCoy ran his fingers through his hair.  Claire had no doubt he was well aware of the effect that careless disarray had on the women in the jury. 

“But Elvira Montoya wanted to have her cake and eat it too.  She wanted to have everything she wanted at no cost – no cost _to herself_.   She was not willing to take the risk – the risk that she might fail in her efforts to be happy.  We all know those moments of decision in our lives.  We all know the fear of change, the hope of a better future.  And we all know that when we make those decisions, we must be sure that the cost of our choices is borne by _ourselves_. Elvira Montoya was not willing to take a chance or pay a price.  Her dilemma is moving – but her solution is unacceptable.  _Find her guilty_.”

He looked deliberately from one juror to another, then turned and strode back to the bar table.  As the judge began to charge the jury, McCoy turned to Claire and leaned close to whisper. 

“How was it?” he asked, breath warm on her cheek, stirring her hair. He was so close to her that if she had leaned a little, just a little, they would have been pressed against each other from knee to collarbone.  She could feel the warmth of his body, she could smell the warm male scent of him fighting through soap and shampoo. 

Claire started to answer him but her mouth was dry and her mind was blank.  She could move her hand a little and it would touch his.  She could turn slightly and their lips would meet. 

_And the courtroom would catch fire_ , she thought.

“What did you think, Claire?” McCoy pressed.

“I think you won them over,” she said distantly, desperately trying to ignore the ache growing between her legs.

“Do you think she’s guilty?” he asked.

That was an odd enough question to distract her.  “Of course!” Claire said, turning to look at him, a reckless movement that pressed her knee against his.  She heard his breath catch but he didn’t move away.  “She beat his head in with a hammer, Jack.”

“But do you think – do you think I was right? In the closing? Do you think I was right?”  He paused, looking away from her, gaze on the bar table where their hands lay side by side, not quite touching. “About risk? About chance?”

“We have to take chances in life, that’s true,” Claire said.  “Take a chance that change will be better. Take a chance that risk will be worth it. Or take a chance that things are better as they are.”

“Which do you prefer?” McCoy asked, still not looking at her.

“I’ve taken some big risks in my life,” Claire said.  “They always ended badly.”  She meant it as a joke, but her voice came out heavier than she’d planned. 

McCoy leaned back in his chair, putting some distance between them.  “Me too,” he said.  He smiled at her, but his eyes were dark and serious.  “So what should triumph, hope or experience?”

Claire bit her lip and looked down.  “Do you want to get a coffee while we wait for the verdict?”

“I’ve got a ton of prep,” McCoy said.  “You go on.  Meet me back here later.”

As the jury filed out, Claire stood up and pushed her files into her briefcase.  Despite his protestations of work, McCoy didn’t move.  She edged past him to the aisle. 

Just as she passed him, he caught her hand. Surprised, she stopped and turned.  He was looking up at her, very serious, gaze searching her face. 

“Jack?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said after a moment, and smiled at her, a sweet sad smile she’d never seen from him, the smile of a much less cynical man.  “Goodbye, Claire.”

“I’ll see you later,” Claire said, nonplussed.

“Yeah.”  McCoy let go of her hand and turned back to his papers.  “Go on, then.”

She stood a moment longer, indecisive.  “Jack?” she asked at last.  “Is there something – ?”

He raised a hand to cut her off without looking up from his files.  “Turns out there’s nothing, Claire. Goodbye.”

“Okay.”  Claire hefted her briefcase and headed for the doors.  Halfway there she began to suspect he had turned to watch her go.  By the time she reached the doors it was a firm conviction.  One hand on the door, she turned to wave –

His back was to her, his head bent over his papers, one hand buried in his hair, broad shoulders a little slumped. 

_Look up, Jack_ , she willed him.  _Look up_. 

He never moved.


	8. Verdict

“In the matter of the People versus Elvira Montoya, on the first count of the indictment, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

“We find the defendant guilty,” the jury foreman said. 

Beside him, Jack heard Claire’s breath hiss out in well-concealed exhilaration.  She turned to him, eyes glowing, and he summoned up a smile.  He knew he should feel the same sense of victory that lit Claire’s face but instead he was weighed down with a pervasive melancholy.

_Risks end badly_.  He’d learned that three times already.  Still, he was willing to take a chance. _But it isn_ _’t just up to me, is it?_

Jack knew it could be.  He wasn’t blind to Claire’s response to him. He heard her breath hitch when he touched her hand, saw her cheeks color when he brushed against her in a crowded elevator, saw her eyes darken when he leaned close to whisper instructions in the courtroom.  He knew – _from experience –_ how little it would take, how easy it would be.  First, ask her to help him with his tie before court.  Then, reach for a blue back at the same time she did, making sure his fingers lingered on hers a little too long.  Put his hand on her back to usher her through the courthouse doors, stand a little too close to her in the elevator, hold her gaze a little too long with his patented, tried-and-true charming smile …

Next, suggest dinner after a case, a restaurant rather than a diner, somewhere with a wine list.

He did none of those things. 

_“You’re turning into that guy, Jack,” Adam Schiff said sourly. “Sally should have taught you something.  Now things have gone sour with Diana.  If that doesn’t teach you a lesson,  I don’t know what will.”_

_“I don’t know what you mean,” Jack said._

_“Don’t give me that,” Adam said.  “You know exactly what I mean.  You should know better.  Keep your pants zipped in the office from now on.”_

_“What two consenting adults do or don’t do is hardly your business – ”_

_“Spare me,” Adam snapped.  “I was never blessed with charm, so I can’t say I understand your situation.  But just because you_ **_can_ ** _get any woman you want into bed with you doesn_ _’t mean you_ **_should_ ** _.  Especially if they_ _’re young women who work for you.  Don’t turn into that guy, Jack.  Or so help me, I don’t care what your conviction rate is, I’ll fire you in a heartbeat.”_

So Jack did not stand too close to Claire in the elevator, did not reach across the desk at the right time to let his fingers collide with hers, did not ask her to help him with his tie.  He wanted to – _god, how he wanted to —_ but he was determined not to be ‘that guy’.  If Claire was willing — willing enough to make the first move –

God, he prayed daily that she’d make that move.  And every day she danced around it, danced around him, danced around the possibility of _them_.  And every day he watched her, waiting, _wanting_ , heroically refraining from trying to influence – _be honest, Jack, from trying to **seduce** – _ her.

As the judge excused the jury and set a date for sentencing, Jack packed up his papers mechanically.  _No more_.  There was only so much a man could stand.  And if he was not going to turn into ‘that guy’ and start running through the Jack-McCoy-workplace-affair-playbook, then he was going to have to walk away. 

Because _god_ , but Claire Kincaid was irresistible.  She was beautiful, even in a city of beautiful women.  She was smart, in an office of smart lawyers.  She was passionate, in a profession filled with passionate advocates. 

And when she looked at him and smiled he had to physically restrain himself from taking her in his arms and running his fingers through her smooth, silky hair and bending to taste her soft lips … Jack was spending as much time carrying his jacket or his briefcase or his files held oh-so-casually in front of his groin as he had as a horny teenager. 

_Distance.  Distance is the only cure._

“So, Jack,” Claire said, startling him.  “What’s the DA Office approved method of celebrating a thumping great victory?”

He turned to her, made himself smile, when what he really wanted to do was lean forward and slide one hand around the back of her neck and pull her forward – “Chinese food,” he said, aware that his voice was too hoarse to be conversational, “Too much Chinese food and too much alcohol.”

“That sounds much like the approved way of getting over a loss,” Claire said lightly.

“Traditionally, when you win the alcohol is champagne,” Jack said, trying to match her tone.

“Sounds excellent.  You’re buying.”

“I’ll have to give you a rain check,” Jack said.  “I have the prep for Yassa to get through.”

He wondered if he was imagining a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. _Perhaps_.  But what if he said, _Sure, let_ _’s go down to the Happy Dragon_ , what then?  They’d spend the night eating and drinking and talking and looking at each other eating and drinking and talking and he’d want the whole time to drag her down on the floor right there in the restaurant – and then at the end of the night she’d step back just at the moment when he might kiss her goodnight and they’d go their separate ways. 

_Distance. Distance is the only cure._

“Rain check,” Claire said.  “Okay.  You want some help with the prep?”

“No, I got it,” Jack said, standing up, turning away. Even with his back turned he was intensely aware of exactly where she was, less than an arm’s length away, close enough for him to smell her perfume.

“Okay,” Claire said softly. 

Jack walked away from her, up the aisle.  He thought he heard her say his name again as he reached the door.  He didn’t look back.

Because if he didn’t want to be ‘that guy’, then distance was the only cure.


	9. Victory

Jack McCoy was making notes from a deposition.  Claire stood silent in the doorway of his office and watched as he drove his pen over the paper, leaning his cheek on his fist.   The ring on his hand caught the light from the desk lamp and as she watched he put the pen down and rubbed his eyes wearily.

_He looks so tired_ , she thought, and a tender pain twisted in her chest, a sweet ache that told her, finally, irrefutably, that she was past the point of no return.

_As if I needed any more telling._ Claire’d thought all afternoon about the celebratory dinner she was  sure they’d be having, about the possibilities for brushing her hand against his as she reached for a spring roll, about the way McCoy looked when he’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves and his hair was falling forward over one eye –

_I_ _’ll have to give you a rain-check_ , he’d said, and walked away.  And in the elevator to the parking garage Claire suddenly found tears running down her cheeks.  _Tears_ , and her Claire Kincaid, A Student (except in Art).  _Tears_ from the woman who’d fought back against Judge Thayer – _and_ won – just because Jack McCoy was too busy to eat egg-rolls and rice off a laminex table with her.

She’d sat in her car for fifteen minutes sniffling into a tissue and feeling sorry for herself and feeling like a fool and then she’d pulled the rear-view mirror over to fix her makeup and looked herself dead in the eye.

_Maybe I thought everything could keep going the way it had been, that it would all be fine,_ Claire thought _, but I have been fooling myself._

_Jack knows.  Jack knows we can_ _’t keep going like this – standing here at the edge of the cliff._

_He could push me over with the right word – but he doesn_ _’t._

_I could push him over with the right word – but I don_ _’t._

_I_ _’ve been waiting for him to jump. Instead, he just stepped back from the brink._

Claire had sat in her car and taken a good hard look in the mirror and stared down into the chasm of the dark unknown and unknowable future in front of her.

Then she’d got back out of the car and headed for the Happy Dragon.

And now she stood in Jack McCoy’s doorway with a plastic bag full of Chinese takeaway containers in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

_Just jump,_ she told herself.  _Just jump._

The little twisting ache in her heart told her she was already falling. _Falling in love.  Too late for parachutes._

Before she could give herself the chance to back out, Claire rapped on the door-frame.

McCoy looked up.  “Claire?” he said.  “I thought you’d gone for the night.”  Her stomach swooped at the sound of his voice and she had to pause to steady herself before she took a deliberate step forward, then another.

She saw his eyebrows go up as he noticed what she was carrying. “I decided that if the victor can’t go to dinner, then dinner should come to the victor,” she said.  “Come on, make some space.” 

McCoy moved a couple of law books and some papers and Claire put the food and wine on his desk. She busied herself unpacking the cartons, careful not to look up, afraid of what he’d see in her face, of what she’d see in his.

“I got kung pao chicken and egg rolls, some beef,” she said, aware that her voice was a little too high and she was talking too quickly. “Those vegetables, you know the ones with vermicelli?  And the pork.  But I couldn’t find anywhere to buy champagne glasses, so –”

“I don’t mind,” McCoy said softly.  Startled, Claire looked up.  Their eyes met.  Claire felt it like a physical touch, as if he had reached out and put his hand flat over her breastbone, just above her heart. Her hands shook and she dropped the bamboo chopsticks she was holding.  McCoy smiled, a slow, lazy smile that Claire felt all the way down to the soles of her feet, and stretched across the desk to pick the chopsticks up.  He took her hand in his, placed the chopsticks in her palm and curled her fingers around them. 

“Thanks,” Claire whispered, staring down at her hand clasped in both of his. 

“You’re welcome,” McCoy murmured, releasing her slowly, fingers trailing across the back of her hand as he let her go.   He turned to fish a couple of scotch glasses out of his desk drawer and set them on the desk.  “What should we drink to?” he asked, working the cork on the champagne loose.  

“Victory?” she suggested.  _Great. Totally lame._ _‘Victory’._   McCoy raised his glass.  Claire held up her hand. “Wait, wait.  No.  To – to the triumph of hope over experience.” 

“I can drink to that,” McCoy said. 

Claire couldn’t taste the champagne but she drank it anyway.  She considered sitting down, possibly a very sensible idea since her knees were close to giving way, but that would put her on the other side of the desk to McCoy and stuck in a chair, and that wasn’t the plan. 

_You can_ _’t jump off a cliff when you’re stuck in a chair._

Casually, she took a step to the side and around the edge of the desk, sipping at her champagne. Her hands were still trembling.  She got a little champagne at the corner of her mouth and swiped it away with her tongue, heard McCoy’s breath catch in his throat.  Deliberately, she did it again, looked across the desk to see his gaze fixed on her mouth. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Jack?”

“Pardon?” he said hastily. 

“Are you hungry?” she asked again. 

“Not as such,” he said carefully.  “You?”

“Not really.”  Claire took another step closer to him. “So much for the victory dinner.” 

“I promised you a rain-check,” McCoy reminded her. 

“Can we go somewhere nice?” Claire said. 

“What’s wrong with the Happy Dragon?”  McCoy said, pretending injury.

“Somewhere with tablecloths?” Claire asked, taking another step towards him.

“Somewhere with a wine list?” McCoy said.  He put his glass down on the desk.  Claire put her glass next to his and took the one last step that brought her to him. 

_I am going to kiss Jack McCoy_ , Claire thought.  _I am about to kiss Jack McCoy_.  Her heart gave an excited bound, almost exactly the way she had felt seeing her mother trying to sneak a cherry red bicycle with sparkly silver wheels and streamers on the handlebars into the house unseen two days before Claire’s ninth birthday.

_I am about to kiss Jack McCoy_.

She reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead and McCoy closed his eyes at her touch, turning his head to follow her fingers.  She could see the pulse beating in his neck, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.  His desire gave Claire courage.  She put her hands on his shoulders and bent forward.

_I am about to kiss Jack McCoy_. 

She touched her lips to his, the least amount of pressure that could still technically be called a kiss.  For a moment neither of them moved, Claire leaning over him, McCoy with his head tipped back, her hands on his shoulders, his on the arms of his chair.  Then he sighed softly, his breath whispering over her lips, and Claire lost her balance.

His arms came around her and he pulled her into his lap and she was still falling, arms around his neck, the world whirling around her.  She could feel his hands running over her as if having started to touch her he wanted to trace every inch of her body as soon as he could, she could feel his body beneath hers as a strong warm still point in the tornado that surrounded her, but it was all secondary to the feel of his mouth against hers, his tongue following the curve of her lips and then flickering against the roof of her mouth, every contact setting of a cascade of sparks that lit up every nerve ending in her body. 

_I am kissing Jack McCoy_.

She was still falling as McCoy ran his fingers through her hair and cupped the nape of her neck, his other hand sliding up her thigh.  He broke the kiss and pressed his lips to her cheek, her jaw, her neck. Claire shivered and gasped, liquid heat building inside her, as McCoy’s lips moved lower and his fingers crept higher.  He pulled her back to him, his kisses growing more urgent.  Claire moaned against his mouth and felt him arch beneath her.  His breath was coming as quickly as hers, and when she shifted and squirmed in his lap he groaned her name. 

“Jack,” she said, and the sound of her own voice saying his name intensified the storm within her, so she said it again and over again and heard him saying her name in return, hips bucking against her, and then there was nothing for her in the world but McCoy’s hands and McCoy’s voice and McCoy’s lips and she was falling and falling and crying out his name as she fell over the edge, over the cliff, to land safely in his arms.


	10. Hallways and Doorways

Jack McCoy heard, very faintly, the tiny voice of self-preservation.

_The door_ _’s open._

It took an exceptional exercise of self-control, but he lifted Claire off his lap. She murmured in protest as he set her on her feet.

“The door,” Jack explained hoarsely, and stood up.  _Hope to god there_ _’s no one still working on 10 tonight._ He locked the door that provided a shortcut to Adam’s office and closed and locked the door to the corridor.  “Adam would sack me on the spot,” he said, turning back to the desk. 

Claire had settled herself in his chair, but she sat up a bit at his words, eyes suddenly wide and serious.  _That_ _’s right_ , Jack thought, _it_ _’s real_.  Claire bit her lip, frowning, and Jack waited for her to say  _Listen, maybe_ _…_

Then a mischievous smile spread across her face.  “Worth it,” she said. 

“Oh, really?” Jack said. “Even if he sacked you on the spot as well?”

“Adam wouldn’t sack me,” Claire said smugly, and Jack laughed.

“You’re probably right,” he said.  “Although I’m a little discomfited by how casually you regard my possible unemployment.” 

She shrugged, the movement doing unsettling things to the blouse skimming her body. “You could find another job.”

“Private practice?” Jack suggested, taking her hands to draw her to her feet.  Claire leaned against him, wrapping her arms around her neck, enveloping him in the faint scent of her perfume.

“Public Defenders office,” she said wickedly, lips brushing his.  “You and I on opposite sides of the aisle … ”

“Might lead to some courtroom fireworks,” Jack said, and Claire laughed softly.  The feel of her breath touching his lips and her body moving ever-so-slightly against his set off a few fireworks in Jack’s brain. He tangled his fingers in her hair and drew her head back, claiming her mouth again, urgency overtaking tenderness.  She was _here_ , she was _in his arms_ , she was _his_ at last and the dizzying heat those thoughts triggered raged through his body, a primeval urge sweeping aside everything in its path.  Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him to her just as fiercely.  He plundered her mouth, one hand holding her head still, the other sliding down her back to her ass, pressing her to him. 

“Oh god _yes_ ,” Claire moaned into his mouth, her hips beginning to circle slightly.  Jack pulled away from her a little, looking down at her dazed face, eyes huge and dark, lips red and swollen from the force of his kisses.  

“If we’re going to leave,” he whispered, “we’re going to have to leave _now_. Or I’m going to have you on the couch.” 

Claire considered, absently tracing a pattern on the back of his neck with her fingernails as she did.  “I’ve had some _very_ naughty thoughts about that couch,” she admitted with a little smile.

“Oh god,” Jack said involuntarily, his hands tightening on her.

“But I think on balance, I’d like to go someone a little less … _legal,_ ” Claire said.

“Okay,” Jack said.  Reluctantly he loosened his grip and took a step back.  “Let me grab my coat.”

“Uh-huh,” Claire said. She took a step towards her own jacket, slung over the guest chair, and stumbled.  Jack grabbed her arm to steady her. “Watch that first step,” she said shakily. “It’s a doozy.”

“You okay?”

“A little light-headed,” Claire admitted slyly. “And I don’t think it’s the champagne.”

Jack found the elevator ride to the ground floor an agony, the cab ride worse. Claire, who had not argued when he gave the driver his address, sat in the back seat beside him, seemingly lost in a private reverie, fingers playing with the top button of her blouse.  By the time the ride was over Jack was almost ready to pull her across the seat and rip the blouse off her and the cab driver be dammed.  The sideways look Claire gave him as she got out let him know that she was entirely aware of the effect she had on him.  Hastily, he paid the cabbie and escorted Claire into the building.

They got into the elevator and Jack stared at the numbers, willing them to climb faster.

“Have you ever done it in the elevator?” Claire asked, leaning close to him.

“Security cameras,” Jack told her. 

“Oh really?” Claire said with a sideways grin.  She leaned back against him and reached behind her to slide her hand between them. Jack gasped.  “Do you think they can see _this_?”  she asked wickedly, her hand moving slowly.  “Or _this_?”

If the elevator ride had been ten seconds longer Jack was sure they _would_ have been doing it in the elevator and cameras be damned.  As it was he wasn’t sure they’d make it into the apartment, him trying to get his key in the lock while Claire kissed his neck and rubbed her foot against his leg and begged him to hurry up, hurry up _please_ Jack, hurry up! 

He finally steadied his hands enough to get the door open, and then closed and locked behind them, and that was the absolute limit of his self-control. 

They ended up on the floor of his hallway, both still mostly dressed, Claire with one foot in the kitchen and the other braced against the wall by the study door, twisting and bucking beneath him like a mermaid out of water, endearments and entreaties pouring from her lips until she had no language left, only urgent wordless cries.  Jack felt the wave take her and the sensation sent him tumbling after her.

He gathered her into his arms, not wanting to move even enough to find somewhere more comfortable than the hallway to lie. 

“Oh god,” Claire murmured.  “If I’d known – I would have done this a lot sooner.”

“I’m flattered,” Jack said sleepily.  He stroked her hair. 

“You realize you’ve set the bar pretty high for yourself…” Claire said.

“I’ll try to exceed expectations,” Jack said.   He realised that something was digging uncomfortably into his side. He raised himself on his elbows a little and looked down, and started laughing.

“What?” Claire said sleepily.  When he didn’t answer she roused herself a little more. “What, Jack?”

“Your handbag,” he said.  Claire felt about beside her and he watched her realize that she not only still had her coat on but she still had her handbag over her shoulder. 

“I was in a hurry,” she said reasonably. 

“What about now?” Jack asked.

“Now,” Claire said, stretching and giving him a wicked little smile, “ _now_ I think I’d like to take my time.”


	11. Gentleman Jack

 

Jack was going to have to upgrade the sound-proofing in his apartment.

 _You wouldn_ _’t think it to look at her_ , he thought as he watched her stride across the courtroom to cross-examine a witness, so slight, so demure, _but Ms Kincaid is definitely a screamer._

_And a howler.  And a shrieker._

_And she has a decidedly dirty mouth._

_Stop thinking about it_.  The jury was going to see the effect thinking about Claire had on him.  _Stop thinking about the way she reaches up to grab hold of the bed-head and screams_ _‘please’ when she’s about to go over the edge, the way she describes exactly what she’s doing to me in the filthiest possible terms, the way she describes exactly what I’m doing to her and how it makes her feel – stop thinking about it!_

Old Mrs Farr from the apartment to the left of his glared at him when she saw him in the hall-way.   Young Ben Kelly from the apartment on the right gave him the thumbs up some mornings. Jack didn’t really care about either but he felt vaguely as if the gentlemanly thing to do would be to upgrade the soundproofing.

_Problem is, just doing the bedroom won_ _’t be enough._

They didn’t always make it to the bedroom.  Sometimes they barely made it inside the front door before Claire had him pressed against the wall, hands busy at his belt as she urged _Fuck me, Jack, fuck me now, come on, come on!_ Sometimes she’d be pouring herself a cup of coffee and just looking at the line her back made when she turned had Jack taking the cup out of her hand and dropping it in the sink and hoisting her up onto the counter.  Sometimes he’d be trying to draft notes for a closing argument or a Rosario motion and he’d look up to see Claire at the other end of the couch, gaze fixed on his face, oh-so-innocently running her fingers through her hair and then she’d moisten her lips with her tongue –

_Stop thinking about it!_

He managed to turn his thoughts back to the case and keep them there for the remainder of Claire’s cross-examination, even when he handed her the exhibits she needed and their fingers touched, even when she leaned across the table and he could smell her perfume.  The minute the judge gaveled them into the luncheon recess, however, it was a different matter.  McCoy gathered their papers together hastily before Claire even made it back to the bar table.

“You and I have some testimony to review, Miss Kincaid,” he said to her.

“Of course, Mr McCoy,” she said demurely, the faintest hint of smile twitching her lips.

He led the way to a vacant case-conference room, locked the door behind them and had Claire in his arms two seconds later.

“I think —  we need to — have sex more often,” he said between kisses.

“When?” Claire demanded, running her fingers through his hair.  “When do you and I have a spare minute that isn’t – oh god – when we aren’t already …” She slipped her knee between his and pressed against his thigh.  “Only so many hours in the day, Jack.  I mean last night … I didn’t even get my witness prep drafted until this morning … oh god, do that again, _please_ do that ... again … god …”

Thinking about last night had been what had got Jack into trouble in the courtroom.  Claire reminding him set of a pulse of desire that momentarily robbed him of the power of speech.  He seized her ass in both hands and yanked her hard against him.  Claire moaned and began to rock against his leg, eyes drifting closed and hands tightening on his shoulders.

“The thing is,” Jack whispered in her ear, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Claire murmured a wordless agreement, eyes still closed, cheeks flushed.  Jack slid one hand up to the small of her back, to the spot that always got a reaction from her.  True to form, Claire gasped and then whimpered, moving more urgently against him. 

“I sit in the courtroom,” Jack said, “and I can’t stop thinking about throwing you down on the bar table and having you right there.” He began to unbutton her blouse.   “I sit in a case conference and try and work out exactly how many minutes have to go by until I can shut the front door behind us and tear off all your clothes.”

“I know,” Claire murmured as Jack pushed open her blouse and began to trace the edge of her bra with one finger.   “I was in the library —  yesterday morning and I started – thinking about those – those big tables they have … got no work done.”

“We need to get this out of our system,” Jack said hoarsely. 

“You think that – will – will help?” Claire asked. 

“Worth a try,” Jack said.  “Don’t you think?”

“No thinking,” Claire said throatily.  “No … thinking.  Just do that – again … please. Just – oh, please. Please!”

“A gentleman always obliges a lady,” Jack told her, sliding her skirt up around her waist. 

“Then let’s pretend you’re a gentleman,” Claire gasped. 

It was the last coherent thing either of them said for some time.


	12. Two Wheels

 

“Chicken?” McCoy said with a grin.

“Yes, and not too chicken to admit it!” Claire said.  “Some things are just too dangerous to be sensible, Jack.”

“Yes, and some risks are worth running. Oh, come on.”  He held the spare helmet out toward her. “I’ve been riding for years, and I’ve never had an accident. Never even come close.  And it’ll be a hell of a lot faster than a cab.”

Reluctantly, Claire let him put the helmet in her hands.  “I’ve never been on a motorcycle,” she admitted. “What if I – pull you off, or knock you over, or something?”

McCoy laughed.  “Not going to happen,” he said. “I’ll go nice and slow.  Just hold on to me, and let me worry about everything else.”

Claire slipped the helmet over her head as he took her bag and stowed it with his in the bike’s panniers. “At least I’m not wearing a skirt today,” she said resignedly. “Is this on right?”

“Perfect.”  McCoy took her hand and drew her closer to the bike.  “It’ll be fine, Claire.  It’ll even be fun!”  


“I really, really doubt that,” Claire said, settling herself behind him on the bike.  She wrapped her arms around him tightly.  The sudden roar of the engine as he gunned the throttle made her jump, heart racing.  “If you kill us both, Jack, I swear to god, I’ll – take some kind of really inventive revenge in the afterlife!”

She felt, rather than heard him chuckle, and then he sent the bike forward and they pulled out of the parking garage.

As McCoy pulled out into the traffic Claire started to panic. The cars were too close and too big and too fast, every passing vehicle seeming to come right at them.  “Stop!” she cried to McCoy, but either he ignored her or, more likely, he couldn’t hear her over the noise of the bike and the traffic and the helmets between them.  She clutched his jacket and closed her eyes tightly, feeling the pulsation of the engine through her whole body.  

Despite her expectations, none of the cars hit them.  After a few minutes Claire began to get used to the feeling of vulnerability that came from having nothing between her and the rest of the traffic.  She hung on to McCoy, pressed close against his back, and tried to calm her breathing.  Eventually she managed to open her eyes, only to close them again as a giant truck zoomed toward them. 

As it passed them at a safe distance, Claire decided that the only way this could be described as ‘fine’ was if she kept her eyes closed the whole way.  With her eyes closed, the shifting balance of the bike as McCoy maneuvered through the traffic was more like a fairground ride.  With them open, it felt like a terrifying trip to early death.  She squeezed her eyes shut and rested her head against McCoy’s shoulder, trying to enjoy rather than dread the way he eased the motorcycle through the traffic and around the corners.

She could certainly enjoy having her arms wrapped so tightly around him, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breathing.  Her legs were pressed against his, thigh to ankle, and that was something else she could enjoy.  Every change in their course made her move against him, a tiny friction that she began to be increasingly aware of as the ride progressed.  Beneath her, the engine of the bike throbbed, a low rumble that traveled up her legs and through the seat beneath her.  As McCoy took them around a corner Claire gasped, the noise loud inside her helmet, her weight shifting against the seat. Then they were upright again, and she was piercingly aware of the engine’s vibration, the constant rhythm pulsing against her.  She pressed closer to McCoy, breath coming faster, as warmth began to build within her.

When the bike stopped in the alley by McCoy’s apartment building she sighed in disappointment.  McCoy killed the engine and the sudden cessation brought a half-formed protest to her lips. 

“Told you it was perfectly safe,” McCoy said, taking off his helmet. 

Claire nodded, not trusting her voice, as she unfastened her helmet and pulled it off.  She clambered off the motorcycle and staggered as her trembling knees didn’t quite support her. 

McCoy grabbed her arm and steadied her.  “You’re trembling!” he said.  “I didn’t – I didn’t think you’d be so scared, I wouldn’t have insisted – ”

He looked remorseful and Claire shook her head quickly.  “Not scared,” she said huskily.  “Not scared.  But if that ride had gone on any longer I would have slid right off the back of the bike.”

McCoy looked down at her and began to smile.  Claire guessed he could see how flushed her cheeks were, how dark her eyes. 

“Well, well,” he said softly.  With a quick glance around to make sure they were unobserved he pushed her back into the shadows and slipped his hand between her legs.

“My, you _are_ worked up, aren’t you?” he murmured, smirking. 

“Don’t – tease me – Jack – you bastard – god!” Claire clutched his shoulders as her knees trembled.  The pressure of his fingers against her already sensitized flesh sent a pulse of sensation through her so strong it was almost painful. 

“Should we go for another spin around the block?” he asked, ignoring Claire’s instructions not to tease her.   She moaned as her hips began to rock involuntarily, seeking pressure, seeking friction, seeking some kind of release from the tension racketing tighter and tighter inside her.

She looked up and met McCoy’s eyes. His smile was smug but his pupils were very wide and his breathing ragged. 

“Please…” she whispered, thrusting against his hand in a faster and faster rhythm. “Please … I … need … ”

“Need _this_?” he murmured, increasing the pressure of his fingers against the seam of her jeans.  Claire bit her lip to stifle a moan and then buried her face against his jacket. 

“God yes,” she babbled against the leather, “god yes, yes.”

She couldn’t have held still or pulled away if her life had depended on it, her whole consciousness concentrated down to the smell of McCoy’s neck as she pressed her sweaty face against it, the feel of his shoulders beneath her hands as she clung to him, and the delicious, excruciating movement of his hand against her. 

“Look at me,” McCoy urged.  “Look at me.”

Claire lifted her head and met his gaze.  The hunger she saw in his face sent a wave of heat through her.  McCoy covered her mouth with his own, his tongue against her lips keeping the same steady rhythm as his fingers.  Claire heard herself cry out, somewhere far away, the sound swallowed by his mouth, and then it all came together inside her in one tight ball of _need_ that exploded with a violence that sent shock-waves through her whole body. 

McCoy held her up as she wilted against him, panting for breath. 

“I should have got you on that bike months ago,” he said hoarsely.  “Where shall I take you now?”

“Your bedroom,” Claire said.  “Because I think you’ve got about a minute and half to get me there before I throw you down and take you on the street.”

His eyes dilated black and she felt him jerk against her.  “That’s appealing,” he said.

“But uncomfortable,” Claire said.  She pulled away from him and grabbed his hand.  “Seventy seconds, now.  Better hustle.”

He followed her with alacrity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I catch up with the sixth season, this story will get darker. If you like your smut of the fluff-only variety, you might want to leave the story here. And, fair warning, the smut gets quite a bit smuttier from here on in.


	13. Because It Is Bitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-ep to "Bitter Fruit".

“It’s hard to believe those two were ever in love,” Claire said as she followed McCoy to the elevator.

“Passionately, I’d say,” McCoy said.  “Where do you think all the hate comes from?”

She thought about that all the way down in the elevator.  “Do you hate your ex-wife that much?” she asked when they were in her car. 

“Enough to pay a felon to kidnap my daughter?” McCoy asked, and laughed.  “No. Nor do I flatter myself that her feelings were ever that strong.”

“How about the others?” She checked the traffic and pulled out of the garage.  “Sally and – _whoever_.”

She _felt_ rather than _saw_ him turn toward her.  “Why the sudden interest?”

Claire shrugged without taking her hands off the wheel.  “Just wondering whether you were drawing on personal experience about passionate love turning to hate.”

He put his hand on her knee, squeezed gently, and then trailed his fingers up her thigh to the edge of her skirt.  “Based on observation over my years in the DA’s Office.  I’ve never been that passionate – until now.”

“So do you think – don’t, Jack, I’m driving.” She waited until he removed his hand, and went on, “So do you think that we’ll end up like that?  Hating each other that much?”

“No,” McCoy said immediately. 

_He sounds so confident_ , Claire thought as she steered through the traffic to McCoy’s place.  _As if he doesn_ _’t even need to think about it._

Maybe that comment had been just one more of his cynical poses, like _Justice is the byproduct of winning._ She’d been so sure they were just a facade to hide the real Jack McCoy, the good heart of the decent man she knew was there underneath, the good man she was _certain_ she could reach.

These days, that certainty was starting to waver.

McCoy didn’t notice that she was quiet and distracted when they reached his apartment.  He’d brought work home, as always, and was soon lost in marshaling his arguments for his opening statement in their next big trial. Claire grabbed a law journal and curled up on the couch, but her thoughts weren’t on the latest interpretation of _People v Kirkwood_.  She watched McCoy drive his pen across the yellow legal pad, thinking about how easy it was for him to toss off a sarcastic _bon mot_ , something smart and unanswerable that left her silenced but not convinced. 

_He needs to be right_ , she thought

But that wasn’t quite it, she knew.  _He needs to win_.   Not just to know he was right, but to beat her, for her to know she was beaten. 

It wasn’t that he’d been right about Karen Gaines, although if Claire was honest, she had to admit it burned her a little to have been so wrong.  _But did he have to be so damn happy about it_?

The depth of Karen Gaines’s selfishness and vindictiveness and how far she’d been willing to go to get back at her equally selfish and vindictive husband had shocked and saddened Claire.  McCoy had been delighted to have his conviction that Gaines deserved prison proved right.  _And you thought she should get Man Two_ , he’d said, grinning.  _I told you you were being too magnanimous_. When she’d bitten her lip, silent, reluctant to start an argument that would end with McCoy coming out with some perfectly crafted turn-of-phrase, he’d gone on: _Come on Claire, don_ _’t be a sore loser. Admit you were wrong._

She looked over at him just as he laid down his pen and raised his head. “I’m done,” he said.  “You?”

Claire shook her head.  “I want to get through this.”

McCoy closed his file and stood up.  “What are you reading?” 

“Catching up on the _Harvard Law Review_.”

“Latest edition?” McCoy asked, sitting down beside her and tilting his head to see. “I’ve read that one.  Nothing exciting, you can take it from me.”

“I should keep up, anyway,” Claire said stubbornly.

“I can think of more enjoyable ways to spend the evening,” he said slyly, running his finger along her arm. 

Usually, at this point, Claire would have thrown caution to the winds and her law books to the floor.  Tonight, she sat still.  “I’d like to finish this,” she said.

“You can finish it later,” McCoy suggested, shifting a little closer to her. _As if sex solves everything._

“I’m not in the mood, Jack!”

He drew back a little, and in her peripheral vision Claire could see him studying her, frowning.  “We won, Claire. There’s no need to be in a funk.”

“I’m not in a funk,” Claire said.  “I’m reading.”

“Oh, okay,” McCoy said.  “If you’re _reading_.”

Claire turned the page.  After a moment McCoy reached out and touched one finger to her knee. Claire ignored him, even after he began to trace gentle figure eights on her skin.  It took an effort to sit still, seemingly oblivious – as always, even the slightest, most innocent touch of his hand sent sparks racing along her nerves.  She focused on the judicial logic behind the _Kirkwood_ decision, even as McCoy’s fingers moved a little higher, then higher still, creeping beneath her skirt, circling slowly, leaving trails of tingling warmth wherever he touched.  It felt so good – it always felt so good when he touched her. Her body responded, as it always did, conspiring with him against her.  She wanted to raise her hips a little, loosen her legs, the urge so strong it took an effort to resist.  A sigh gathered in her chest, a murmur of pleasure she refused to voice.

_As if sex solves **anything**. _

_Not this time_.

He moved a little closer to her, sliding his hand between her legs. As his fingers kept up their slow movement on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, he bent his head and kissed her neck.

“Jack,” she said reproachfully. “I’m reading.”

“So read,” he whispered against her skin.  His lips traced the line of her neck, and then she felt his breath warm against her ear.  _Oh, god_.  He knew all her weak points.   She closed her eyes for a second as he nipped her earlobe gently and then moved along the arch of her ear. She felt his lips, his tongue, and fought to keep her breathing steady.  The law review blurred in front of her eyes as McCoy’s hand moved higher, brushing the edge of her panties, then sliding across the silky fabric. _Oh god, oh god._

She turned a page, having no idea what she’d just read or what the words in front of her meant, and couldn’t help glancing downward, wanting to see his hand moving against her.  Everything about them together turned her on but watching him caress her was definitely up there toward the top of the list. She was disappointed that he hadn’t pushed her skirt up high enough to give her a clear view.  _Look at your **book** , Claire!  _

McCoy hooked his finger around the elastic of her panties and pulled them aside. _Oh god._ Claire stared unseeing at her book, sure he could feel the pounding of her heart as his lips returned to her neck, trying not to breathe in noisy gasps.

“So are you enjoying the law review?” McCoy asked slyly. “Claire?”

“Yes,” she murmured as he reached his target.  “Yes, oh yes. Yes.”

“Are the articles good?”

“So good,” she whispered.  “Yes, so good.” 

“You’re a liar, Claire Kincaid,” McCoy said, his mouth curving in a smile against the racing pulse beneath her jaw. 

Then, unexpectedly, he pinched her, not quite hard enough to hurt, but almost.  Claire gasped in surprise, then gasped again as the sharp touch sent intense shock-waves along her nerves. His fingers eased to a gentle, tormenting tease, and then suddenly were demanding again, pressing and tweaking her insistently.  Each tweak sent a jolt of electricity through her, driving her sharply towards the peak of pleasure she could feel coming closer and closer.

McCoy pinched her again and the involuntary moan that escaped her put an end to any efforts at pretense. Claire let her head fall back against the couch as the book slid from her lap. 

“Finished your reading?” McCoy asked.

“Oh, god,” she murmured.  “Please. Oh.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”  McCoy shifted position slightly, leaning over her to kiss her collarbone and the soft skin beneath.  Frantically, Claire unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra, giving him unimpeded access.  She felt his tongue swirl a slow circle as his fingers described the same movement below and then he nipped at her with his teeth, almost painfully, pinching her again at the same instant.  Claire cried out, body jerking with the exquisite shock of it, and McCoy repeated the sequence. Claire clutched at his shoulders, body trembling and writhing uncontrollably beneath him. 

Just as she thought anticipation would tip over into inevitability his mouth and fingers became softer, gentle, giving her a respite she really, _really_ didn’t want.

“Please,” she whispered, arching her back. “Again. _Please_.”

“This?” he asked, sending another shock of pleasure through her. 

“ _God_ , yes!” she gasped, feeling her whole body focus down on his touch.  “I – Jack – ” 

He chuckled and his fingers became feather-light again, stroking her delicately, tantalizingly.  Claire whimpered in frustration, drew breath to beg him and then lost it as he gave her exactly what she would have asked for, but only for a second.  She moaned and raised her hips to press harder against his hand, but he drew away as she did, teasing.  Just as she thought she would lose her mind with the maddening subtlety of his touch he flicked her sharply with his thumb and she cried out, shuddering.

“So close, Jack, please – I – let me – ” 

His hands and mouth left her and she groaned in disappointment.  He took hold of her hips and turned her until she was lying on the couch, positioning himself between her legs. Claire reached for him eagerly but he held himself away from her.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to let you finish that article?” he asked. 

“Bastard,” Claire gasped, trying to pull him down to her. Jack shook his head. 

“I wouldn’t want to be the reason you weren’t current with your reading,” he said.

“Oh, god, you bastard, I can’t – ” She ran her hands over herself and reached down between her legs, unable to wait another _second._ She looked up at McCoy as she did to herself exactly what she wanted, _needed_ , from him, seeing his eyes darken and hearing his breath catch.  _He loves to see this_.  He loved it so much that he was usually on her moments after she began, replacing her hands with his own, groaning her name as he devoured her mouth.  The memory, the feel, the sight of him watching her, all came together in a deep ache that tightened and tightened inside her. “Yes,” she whimpered, “Yes, now, yes, god – ”

Suddenly he grasped her wrists and pulled her hands above her head.

“No!” Claire protested desperately.  “No, Jack, I – _please_!” She writhed on the couch as he restrained her, arching her back in an effort to press herself against him.

“I thought you wanted to read,” he said.

“I want – I want to – I have to – now, Jack, please, _please_ … ”

“You said you weren’t in the mood,” he reminded her.

“I was wrong,” Claire gasped.  “Wrong. So wrong. Please, god, please, I’m dying here, Jack!”

He smiled down at her triumphantly, and then lowered himself to her, answering her burning longing with his body.  Claire moaned wordlessly, the empty ache within her transmuting to a new and equally urgent throb.  McCoy lifted her hips and changed their position slightly and she felt molten golden warmth begin to grow inside her, expanding through her whole body with every movement of flesh against flesh.   She opened her eyes to see McCoy looking down at her, moving steadily and slowly, as she felt golden light filling her completely, until every nerve and inch of skin was glowing.

“You’re so beautiful like that,” McCoy said hoarsely. “So beautiful.”

Her whole body was nothing but light and heat, filling her until there was no room for thought or memory, filling her until finally it overflowed and swept over her in wave after wave of pleasure that robbed her of thought and sight.  All she knew was the feel of McCoy’s body against hers and his voice, low and husky, telling her over and over how beautiful she was. 

Still trembling, she opened her eyes again, looking up at him as he began to move faster against her. 

“God, Claire,” he gasped, “So beautiful.” 

Claire raked his back with her nails, rocking against him the way she knew he liked, and heard him groan her name.  Knowing that in a moment she would feel him reach his own satisfaction made Claire’s breath come faster in anticipation, and she felt her own body begin to burn and ache again.  She arched her back, head rolling against the armrest of the couch, the tension twisting tighter inside her, unbearable, irresistible.  “Claire,” McCoy said urgently, “Claire – are you – go on – I can’t – ”

She slid her hand down between them and did as he urged, the same sharp touch he had used on her earlier, and then a sudden cataclysm rocked her with a cascade of fire and her whole body jerked and shuddered as she fell over the edge again, this time taking McCoy with her, both of them crying out over and over as they lost themselves in each other.

Claire came back to herself as McCoy lowered himself down beside her, gathering her in his arms.  She pressed her face into his neck, a twitch of memory between her legs at the smell of sex and sweat.

“My god,” McCoy said, sounding a little dazed.

“Uh huh,” Claire said, the limit of her vocabulary.  McCoy laughed, running his hand over her back, and she shivered a little in response.  He looked down at her, and his mouth twitched in a smile.

“You’re unbelievable, Ms Kincaid,” he said, stroking her back, his hand moving around to cup her breast.  Claire gasped, back arching involuntarily.  “Just unbelievable.”

As his hand moved lower Claire shook her head. “I – just – ”  Her thoughts scattered as he began to stroke her aching, sensitive flesh and a groan tore from her as she arched against his hand.  “Jack – god – it’s too much – ”

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“No – yes – no, don’t stop, god.” His touch was unbearable, exquisite, excruciating, utterly necessary.  Claire panted and groaned and strained against him.  “I need – I can’t – please – I can’t – ”

But she could, and she did, twisting and moaning and begging until finally he took her beyond words and she went rigid, shuddering with the force of the explosion within her.

As the shock-waves ebbed she collapsed against McCoy, utterly spent.  He cradled her, stroking her hair gently, and she closed her eyes, drifting dreamily in a cloud of satiation.  God, she felt so good, every muscle relaxed, the warm glow of wellbeing suffusing her. _Okay, so, I have to admit_ , she thought languorously, _sex solves **some** things. _

“Claire,” McCoy said after a while.  “We might be more comfortable in bed.”

“Can’t move,” she mumbled.

He laughed.  “I could try to carry you.”

“No,” she said.  “Want to stay here.” She snuggled closer to him, trapping him against the back of the couch, and he laughed again, arms folding more tightly around her.

“I told you there were better ways to spend the evening than studying law journals,” he said.

“You were right,” Claire said sleepily.

“I’m always right,” McCoy said.

She tipped her head back to look at him, finding him gazing at her with an intensity that bordered on the unnerving. “Sometimes.”

“Always,” McCoy insisted.

“Often,” Claire conceded.  

“ _Always_ ,” he said, and silenced any further argument with a kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a Stephen Crane poem – “ But I like it/ Because it is bitter, /And because it is my heart."


	14. Research

Claire reached up for the law report on the second top shelf.  She couldn’t reach it.  Sighing, she looked around for the ladder and couldn’t see it.  _Damn it_.  It must be in one of the conference rooms.  She could spend ten minutes looking for it. 

_One more try_.  Claire stood on tiptoes, straining upwards.  Her fingers brushed the report but she couldn’t get any purchase.

“Here,” McCoy said, right behind her.  Claire started. He had moved too quietly for her to hear.  Before she could move away from the shelf to let him reach the book he stepped up behind her and reached around her, steadying himself with his left hand set just by hers. He snagged the volume. 

“Thanks,” Claire said, acutely aware of how close he stood behind her, feeling the warmth of his body through her blouse, his arms brushing hers in an almost-embrace.  As always, it took only that tiny contact to start her heart pounding.

“Don’t mention it,” McCoy murmured, not moving away.  He turned the book so he could read the spine.  “1984 – you’re looking up the McGuire decision?”

“Yes.” Claire said.

“It’s not relevant,” McCoy said. Claire could feel his breath on her ear as he spoke and it made her shiver.  “The disqualification only applies to family witnesses.”

“I disagree.  The judge said family witnesses ‘in this case’.  The door is open for further interpretation.” 

“Very creative,” McCoy said.  He moved his left hand from the shelf to rest over her hand.  “But I still think you’re reaching.” 

Claire took the volume from him.  “We’ll see,” she said. 

“We will,” McCoy said.  His thumb brushed the back of her hand in a slow circular motion.  His other hand rested gently on her waist.  Claire couldn’t help it.  She leaned back against him.   McCoy chuckled softly, his lips brushing her ear.  “You’re very predictable, Miss Kincaid,” he said.

“Oh really?’ Claire said.

“Trying to expand McGuire beyond – ” He broke off with a gasp as Claire pressed back against him.  She rolled her hips slowly, smiling smugly as she felt how strongly his body responded to hers.  She could hear McCoy’s breathing thicken as she moved. 

“Predictable?’ she asked. 

His only answer was to seize her hips and pull her hard against him. 

“You’re a little predictable too, Mr McCoy,” she purred, grinding teasingly against him. 

His breathing ragged, McCoy bent his head and Claire felt his lips on her neck as his arms slipped around her, one hand moving up to her breasts and the other down to run up the inside of her thigh.  Claire gasped and then moaned softly as McCoy cupped her breast, rubbing her nipple through her blouse and bra. 

“Oh god Jack,” Claire whispered. As McCoy moved his other hand up to her crotch, the law report slipped from her hand.   He stroked her gently, teasingly, and Claire swayed a little.

 She rocked against his hand, and he pressed against her.

“Good?” McCoy asked, a little hoarse. He began to rub her harder, and Claire bit her lip as tingling warmth changed to burning urgency.    He was going to get her off right then and there, she realized, and imagined how they would look to any observer, entwined, McCoy’s head bent so he could kiss her neck as he slipped his hand inside her blouse, her own head thrown back – the image sent a fresh wave of heat through her. 

“This  is not – very – oh my god — _discreet_ ,” she panted. 

“No-one’s here,” McCoy said.

“Someone could – could – ” Her thoughts scattered as McCoy took her earlobe between his teeth, nipping it gently. 

“Someone could what?” McCoy asked, hand inside her bra now, the other moving in slow circles that made Claire’s vision blur. 

She braced herself against the bookshelf and pushed back hard against him. “Someone could – come – back.”

“We’d hear the lift.”

“I wouldn’t — hear a  — herd of _elephants_ ,” Claire gasped.

“Some risks are worth running,” McCoy said hoarsely as Claire writhed desperately beneath his touch.  

“Jack – I – oh  — ”  She closed her eyes and saw all the colors of the rainbow, McCoy’s strong arms holding her up as her knees buckled.

After a moment, as her breathing slowed, she reached behind her and began to repay him.  _This isn_ _’t exactly what my law professor meant by ‘quid pro quo’_ , she thought as McCoy gasped, his arms tightening around her.  _But close enough._

“I think we need to go somewhere more private,” she whispered, emphasizing her words with the teasing movement of her fingers. 

“Right _now_ ,” McCoy agreed hoarsely.

Claire led the way, hurrying to lock the side door as McCoy locked the main door behind him. She waited for him to take the lead, to either pull her down onto the couch or press her beneath him, depending on his mood. Sometimes he liked to have her beneath him, bearing down on her, claiming her, possessing her. Sometime he liked to have her above him, her hair falling over her face, watching her move.

Either suited Claire just fine.  Whichever pace he set – slow and tantalizing, fast and urgent – whichever position, he made sure that she found it as rewarding as he did, and so she had always been content to follow his lead.

_Like just now, in the hallway_.  He knew she couldn’t resist him.

She couldn’t complain, exactly, he wasn’t what you’d call a selfish lover, but as he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her Claire suddenly wanted to know what _he_ felt, when she writhed helplessly at his touch.  Oh, sure, sometimes she took the initiative, but it wasn’t what she’d call _seduction_ – slipping loose a button on her blouse, toying with her hair, a sidelong glance and a remark about how _hot_ it was, and McCoy’s hands were all over her.  She enjoyed how quickly and invariably he responded to her, and she certainly couldn’t deny she enjoyed how he expressed that response, but …

Abruptly, she put her hands on his shoulders and turned him, pushing him down to sit on the couch.  He gasped in surprise, and then grinned and reached for her. 

Claire evaded his hands and knelt in front of him, pushing his knees apart.  McCoy raised an eyebrow as she reached for his belt.

“You’re in an unusually assertive mood tonight,” he said, voice catching as she touched him.

“Shut up and enjoy it,” Claire told him. 

He chuckled, then groaned softly as she leaned forward and he felt her mouth. She listened to his gasps and moans with a mounting excitement of her own.  After a moment he ran his fingers through her hair and then gripped the couch with both hands.  She felt him trembling with the effort of holding still.

“Of course,” he said hoarsely, “If you were – were looking for a – _god_ , Claire – a case to expand the class of – of – _restricted_ witnesses – ”

Claire paused.  “Jack,” she said, knowing the breath from her words would brush over him.  “Is this really the time to talk about case law?”

His hands clenched on the couch.  “I think – this is _exactly_ the time – unless you – plan to be _disappointed_.”

She gave a non-committal murmur and he groaned again at the sensation. Claire looked up  to see him watching her, eyes dark and face flushed.

“McGuire only indicates …” McCoy said, and stopped, gasping. “Oh  — Claire – wait – I – ”

She ignored his instruction and he reached down to push her away from him.

“I’m only _human_ ,” he said. “I think you’d better come here.”

Claire reached for him again and again he pushed her away, then took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his lap. She pouted theatrically. “I wasn’t finished.”

McCoy grinned, and pushed her skirt up around her waist. “I nearly was.”

“I was enjoying being in the driver’s seat.”

“You’re going to enjoy this a lot more,” McCoy said as he fitted them together.

And a moment later, Claire had to admit to herself that he was right.

To herself, and only to herself.


	15. Savage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-ep for “Savages”, episode 3, season 6

He’d won.

Not much of a surprise, there. Jack McCoy almost always won, in the courtroom and out of it.

This time, the price of his victory was Paul Sandig’s death. 

Claire closed her eyes as the jury was polled. The price of his victory. _Of our victory_. She was a part of this, too. Not just in a general little-cog-in-a-big-machine way, either. Claire had done the research that McCoy had used to persuade the appellate court. Claire had prepped the witnesses. Claire had sat next to McCoy at the bar table every day of the trial.

She’d done her job. She’d done her job, and they’d won.

And Jack McCoy did like to win, in the courtroom and out of it.

Gathering her papers together, Claire wondered if that had been where she’d made her mistake. _Trying to persuade him that the death penalty is wrong, and that this case and this defendant would be wrong for it either way._

_The minute I made it an argument, I was always going to lose._

She followed McCoy out of the courtroom and stood silent as he talked to the reporters waiting on the front steps. He used words like _justice_ and _public confidence._ Claire wondered if McCoy’s concept of justice could really include killing the man they’d all seen sobbing on the stand, begging for his life.

She knew what he’d say if she asked him. He’d ask her if Bobby Croft would have begged for his life if he’d had the chance.

_Everybody wants to live. That_ _’s hardly an argument for more people dying._

Claire knew she had the facts on her side. She had the crime statistics, the people sentenced to death and later found to be innocent, the savage barbarity of telling a man when and where he was going to die, to the square inch and to the second.

McCoy had the law. The law, and a driving need to win.

There had to be a way for her to reach him. She knew him: he wasn’t this man, this man who could work so hard to end another human being’s life. Not really, not inside.

He couldn’t be, because she loved him. And how could she love a man like that?

McCoy finished with the reporters and she followed him down the steps. At the curb, he paused. “You may as well take the rest of the afternoon.”

Claire nodded.

He paused. “Will I see you at home, later?”

Part of her wanted to say no. Part of her wanted to go back to her own tiny flat, shut and lock the door, and spend the night curled up alone in her own bed.

If she went to his place, he’d start the argument up again. Unless she lied, and pretended he’d persuaded her. And if she did that — how would she ever reach him, the good man she knew was inside somewhere, if she didn’t fight for him? “Do you want to?” she asked.

And he hesitated.

“Fine,”  Claire said. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

She turned to go and he put a hand on her arm. “Claire. I’m just not sure I want to spend the evening with your eyes accusing me every time you look up.”

“Do you want me to keep my eyes on the ground? Maybe walk a few steps behind you, Jack? Nice and demure and showing enough deference?”

“You know that’s not what I mean! And you know I’m not the criminal here. I didn’t take a gun and go to a man’s home and shoot him in the chest.”

“No. And you won’t be the one taking Paul Sandig out of his cell and down the corridor and strapping him down and putting the needle in his arm, either. Is that how you live with it?”

“It’s the law!”

“Well, excuse me if I can’t stop hearing Sandig begging for his life.”

“Excuse me if I can’t stop hearing Bobby Croft begging for _his_. He was a cop, Claire! He put his life on the line for the sake of public safety. _Your_ safety. Paul Sandig shot him to keep from going to jail. When someone kills a cop, the sanctions _have_ to be severe. Otherwise every cop is going to need to keep one hand on his gun every time he makes a traffic stop.”

“I know all the arguments.”

“You just don’t want to listen to them.”

“Maybe they’re just not very convincing.”

“Convincing enough for the jury.”

“And juries always get it right! Come _on_ , Jack!” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Look. We can’t talk about this without fighting. Not now. Not today.”

“We’re not fighting, we’re arguing,” he countered. “Something we both do for a living so it shouldn’t scare you.”

“I can’t see this the way you do.”

McCoy smiled, but there was no humor in his tone. “That’s funny, you’re usually so good at seeing the defendant’s point of view.”

“That’s not fair! We’re both supposed to be in this for justice.”

“We’re supposed to be in this to _win_ , Claire. And you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am!”

“It doesn’t feel very much like it.”

“I’m on your side, Jack.”

_But sometimes, it would be nice to feel that you_ _’re on mine._

“Then come over tonight,” he said. “I won’t argue if you won’t. Please, Claire.”

_As if sex solves everything_.

She had to admit though, that between them, between her and McCoy, sex solved a lot of things. 

That night, like every  night, it bridged the distance between her longing for justice and his need to win. It closed out the world where hard choices more and more often saw them on opposite sides of the question even while they were on the same side of the aisle. It made a new world, where she was Claire and he was Jack and they belonged with each other, now and forever.

She kept her face buried against his chest so he couldn’t see her accusing eyes.

 

 

 


	16. Cold Pursuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-ep for “Hot Pursuit”

Lying awake in the dark, Claire stared at the ceiling. If she didn’t turn to look at McCoy, if she didn’t speak, if he didn’t, she could pretend there was nothing wrong. She took a deep breath, smelling sex and sweat. There was no way to tell from the smell that she’d had tears in her eyes when she came, that McCoy had gasped her name in a voice as much angry as passionate.

“Jack. Are we going to be okay?” she asked.

“Until one of us gives up,” McCoy said. He looked at her. “Claire.”

She didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. She leaned over and silenced him with a kiss.

“We’ll be okay,” she whispered against his mouth. ‘We’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

It was the first time she’d ever kissed him without desire.


	17. Corpus Delicti

Lying in the dark beside her, listening to her breathing and smelling her perfume beneath the tang of sex and sweat, Jack knew that Claire was wondering what sort of man he is.

He knew she’d been wondering that for a while, now.

 _It_ _’s not my fault. I never pretended anything. Never pretended to be a bleeding-heart, never pretended not to enjoy winning a case. Never pretended to be anything other than exactly who I am._

_What she saw is what she got._

When they’d started this … this _whatever_ it was that they were doing, he hadn’t given a thought to how it was going to end. He’d expected that it would, because it was a fling, for her at least, and flings end, don’t they?

He could even have predicted that work would come between them, because work always came between him and the women in his life: late nights, long hours, weekends spent prepping for trial and not picnicking in the park or whatever the hell other people did their Sundays. 

And it had. Just not in the way he would have expected.

“Claire,” he said softly. “Come over here. Please.”

Claire was silent a moment. “I need a glass of water,” she said at last.

She got up and went into the kitchen. Jack could have followed her.

He didn’t. He lay staring at the ceiling in the dark and wondered if she was getting dressed out there, if she’d come back in and say something like _we_ _’ve both got early starts tomorrow_ …

And then he’d know, finally, how this whatever-it-was that they were doing was going to end.

Until she came back with her water and with a glass for him, too, and slipped back into bed beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Penny for them?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear what she was thinking about, not sure if it was worse to wonder.

Unexpectedly, she chuckled. “If you really want to know, I was remembering that until I was about twelve, I thought ‘corpus delicti’ meant ‘delectable body’, not ‘body of the crime’.”

“The first time I read ‘mens rea’ in some courtroom potboiler I borrowed from the school library, I thought it meant the crime had been committed by a man.”

She moved a little, and Jack realized she was looking up at him, even though she couldn’t possibly have been able to make out his face in the dark. “And actus rea?”

“Committed by an actuary,” he said promptly, and was rewarded with her chuckle. “You know, Claire …”

“Yes?”

He took the glass from her hand by touch and reached over her to set it on the nightstand. “Since we’re both awake … it seems a shame to waste an opportunity to habeas your corpus delicti.” 

 She was laughing when he kissed her.


	18. Pro Se

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-ep for "Pro Se"

Claire couldn’t leap tall buildings.

She hadn’t needed Jack McCoy to tell her that.

She couldn’t leap tall buildings and she couldn’t look into the details of every single minor offense that crosses her desk and she couldn’t juggle forty-seven cases at one time without dropping a ball or two.

Which meant, when it came down to it, that she couldn’t do her job.

Oh, she could do it as well as any other ADA. She could do it well enough for McCoy and she could do it well enough for Adam Schiff, most of the time.

But she couldn’t do it well enough for _herself._

The system, the system that she was an inextricable part of, had worked the way it had supposed to.

And people had died.

The system had worked the way it was supposed to for Paul Sandig and for Leslie Harlan and for James Smith and for each and every one of them and McCoy had no problem with it.

She found she couldn’t keep from crying. 

Well, that wasn’t strictly true.  She had to keep from crying, at work, at home with McCoy, on the street.  She was an ADA and she couldn’t be having public hysterics all the time.  And McCoy had no patience with her tears. 

But her car, on the way to or from work on the increasingly frequent days Jack took his bike, her car was private.  That is the place she could cry.  And in her car, she couldn’t keep from crying.  She started crying when she got behind the wheel, before she put her seatbelt on, before she turned the key in the ignition.  She cried all the way to work, big, noisy, gulping sobs, snuffling away snot and barely able to see the road through the scalding tears that streamed down her cheeks.  When she pulled into the car park, she had to stop crying.  She wiped her face with a towelette and put on her makeup.  At the end of the day she got back her car and started crying again, cried all the way home. 

Sometimes she thought, _This is untenable._

Other times she thought, _if I_ _’m only crying in my car, things can’t be that bad._   

She was weighed down with misery, exhausted by it.  She longed for comfort.  She could ask McCoy for comfort.  But she was beginning to suspect that Jack McCoy was an inextricable part of what she needed comforting _from_.

He’d told her that after the Smith trial there’d be an open door. _No strings._

_As if there_ _’s ever not any strings!_

As if Jack McCoy could ever keep himself from pulling hers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul Sandig was the defendant sentenced to death in “Savages”, episode 3 of season 6. Leslie Harlan was the young woman charged with murder in “Hot Pursuit”, episode 5 of season 6. James Smith was the defendant in ‘Pro Se’, episode 21 of season 6.


	19. Paranoia

It was just paranoia, and Jack knew it.

He and Claire had taken risks, sure, in the office, but not so many lately. If they hadn’t been caught back in the first few months when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other even long enough to lock the door of his office, then they were safe.

Adam Schiff’s glances from under lowered brows meant that Jack had caused him some kind of political problem with one of their recent trials, although try as he might Jack couldn’t understand which one it might be.

It didn’t mean he _knew_.

Jack told himself that right up until Adam looked at him over the rim of his scotch glass and said sourly, “You’re that guy, Jack. I warned you not to be.”

His first instinct was for denial and he started to shake his head but Adam knew him too well.

“Don’t insult me by trying to pretend I haven’t seen what I’ve seen. I’m old, not senile. I’ve been turning a blind eye because Lord knows I don’t need any more headaches, but bringing her back on the Smith trial against my explicit instructions was over the line.”

“You should never have benched her —”

“My office, my decision, and you used to know that. It’s affecting your judgment. Just like it did with Diana, and look how that turned out.”

“This is different,” Jack said. “I love her, Adam.”

“You’ve loved all of them,” Adam reminded him. “End it.  Or one of you get another job.  But I’m warning you, Jack, if you leave it up to me to find a solution – you won’t like the outcome.”

Jack looked into his glass and found it empty. “She might be going to leave anyway, Adam. You were hard on her over James Smith, but not as hard as she was on herself.”

Adam didn’t look mollified. “You always have had more luck than you deserve.”

 


	20. Tremor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-ep for "Aftershock"

Jack knew Claire had come over to the couch, even though he couldn’t hear her bare feet on the carpet. Her perfume, he realized, drifting to him on the air disturbed by her movement.

“It’s nearly time,” she said.

“I know.”

“It’s a long drive.”

He put down his paper and tipped his head back to look up at her. “You don’t need to come, you know.”

“Yes, I do. As much as you do.”

“I’m going because I’m going to enjoy it, Claire, you’re going to punish yourself.”

“Enjoy it.” She turned away. “I know you don’t mean that, Jack, I know you don’t. I wish you wouldn’t say it.”

“Mickey Scott raped and killed —”

“I know what he did, Jack, this is about what _we_ do!”

“Tell me when you’re ready to go,” he said, and looked back at his papers.

“Jack,” Claire said.  He had always loved the way she said his name, the way her drawl added an extra vowel, lingered over it like a lover's hand.  Not tonight.  She sat down at the other end of the couch, feet together, arms folded, folded in on herself. “Jack.”

“What?”

“I can't.”

“Can’t face the execution? Then don’t.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He capped his pen carefully, and looked at her.  He knew what she needed from him.  Needed him to comfort, to cajole, to support.  To tell her how much he needed her. 

“So stop,” he said flatly.

_I'll be damned if I'll beg her to stay._

_I'll be damned._


	21. Afterword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-ep for "Aftershock"

Jack looked at Claire’s hand clasped in his because he couldn’t bear to look at her face.  Despite the bruises, she could be sleeping.

_Her hand is still warm_ , he thought, puzzled.

“Jack,” Liz Rodgers said behind him.

Drowning in medicalese, he’d made a desperate phone call, and Dr Rodgers came.  He should be grateful. 

He knew what Rodgers was going to say.  Gratitude was impossible.

“It’s time,” Rodgers said.

_But her hand is still warm._

He leaned forward. Despite everything, the faint trace of her perfume still clung to her skin.

For the last time, he kissed her lips.


	22. Afterimage

_“Oh, god, Jack,” Claire whispers, back arched as she straddles him, rocking slowly.  She lets her head fall forward and shoots him a sly look through the hair that has fallen over her eyes, well aware of the effect she has on him.  He grasps her hips, thrusting against her, unable to wait, and she cries out eagerly, tightening around him, cries out ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘now’ and –_

Jack woke gasping, desire blazing through him.  The dream of Claire lingered in the room and his hips lifted involuntarily from the bed.  As always, dreaming about her had left him achingly hard.

Did memory trigger desire, or desire make memory vivid? Jack didn’t know, nor did he really care.  All he knew was that as the heat within him built and built Claire grew more and more real, leaning over him, whispering to him, touching him -

He jerked off furiously, disgusted with himself, masturbating over the memory of a woman rotting in her grave.  _Sick bastard_.  It was not enough to banish the fantasy of Claire throwing her head back in abandon, moving against him with increasing urgency, wanting, wanting _him_ , begging _him_ , there _with_ him … 

_God, Jack, yes, please, god ..._

Because she never could be there with him.  Claire was gone.

He could never have her back. The closest he could come to her was this.  And repugnant as it was, he could not give it up.

They hadn't _only_ been about the sex, but it was undeniable that they had _always_ been about the sex.  Celebratory we-won-the-case sex; commiserating we-lost-the-case-feel-better sex; angry about-to-break-up sex … Jack missed Claire in the office, he missed her in court, he missed her just walking along the street, but it was in his bed that her absence was so glaringly apparent it transmuted into a haunting so vivid Jack sometimes wondered he truly did share his bed with a ghost.

When he drank enough he could sleep without dreams and sometimes that was a blessing, letting him wake in the morning with a pounding head and churning stomach but no sick sense of self-loathing.  But in dreams was the only time he had to hold her, to brush back that smooth fall of hair and trace the line of her cheek, to touch her and listen to her soft cries as she responded so eagerly to his touch, to hear her say his name with that slow drawl, to hear her say "yes" and "please" …

_To hear her say_ _“I won't ever leave you, Jack.  I won't ever leave."_

“Goddamn!” he gasped, released from her ghost, at least for now.  He lay still a moment, turned his head to look at the clock.  Four in the morning.  He wouldn’t sleep again tonight.  On the other hand, he couldn’t really get up and go to work yet without Adam raising his eyebrows and maybe calling him in for a ‘talk’.  If there was one thing Jack knew he really couldn’t bear, it was one of Adam’s ‘talks’.    _One thing – what a joke.  As if there_ _’s only_ ** _one_** _thing._

_“I won't ever leave you, Jack.  I won't ever leave."_

Which would have been a lie, if she had said it, even if she hadn’t come to pick him up that goddamn night, because she had been already leaving him.  They had been leaving each other.  That was why he’d been drinking. That was why she’d taken so long to come to get him.  That was why he’d left without waiting for her.

That was why she’d been in that car, at that time, at that place, at that moment.

Why she’d finally, irrevocably, unalterably left him.

_“I won’t ever leave you, Jack. I won’t ever leave.”_

“Liar,” he told her, startling himself with the force and fury of his voice.  “ _Liar._ _”_

_“I won’t ever leave you, Jack. I won’t ever leave.”_

For just a moment he could smell her perfume.

 

< _fin_ >

 

 

 

 


End file.
